Apocalypse of Kensington
by wordofall
Summary: One shot. Attempt of humor. Not really any rating necessary.


Sherlock Holmes was bored, bored, BORED! John was at his sister´s to complete his monthly martyrdom (Harriet Watson swore that THIS TIME she will get clean, no booze). He left for two weeks, which would most likely consist of helping his sister vomit.

„Sherlock, please, I know what you think, but I have to try, ok?" John had said before dashing to the train station. And since there were no cases (of for God´s sake, what happened to the criminal classes´dignity?) and Sherlock was fairly certain that John wouldn´t be amused were he to return home to find Sherlock relieving himself with artificial means (and experiments from six, five and three years ago proved that Sherlock was uncapable to take just one dope – frankly it was alarming that it took three identical experiments to prove this lack of will, which Mycroft didn´t forget to mention the third time he was helping him get clean), the greatest mind of his generation was lounging on a couch and reciting to himself cifres of pi hoping to fall asleep.

A mobile phone chimed. And a few seconds later, it did it again. „John, phone!" announced the consulting detective and then, upon realising that John was indeed not in the room, made the three steps to the table and checked the text.

_Pink moon. MH_

And another one, which came few seconds later:

_My place. Come quik. MH_

Those were dire circumstances indeed. Mycroft Holmes, his seven years senior, has sent him a distress call. A code developed by young brothers somewher long ago and far away when the worst creature to encounter was the butcher´s dog. Pink moon ment trouble. That Mycroft made a typo in the second message only proved that the circumstances were very dire indeed.

It took Sherlock fifteen minutes to get to Mycroft´s house in Kensington, and only in the cab he realised that not only he rushed to his brother´s aid devoid of shoes and proper clothing, but he also forgot his set of lockpicks and John´s gun. But since he had the key to Mycroft´s house (his brother – correctly – assumed that once he allowed his younger brother to walk in and out freely and put his dirty hands on whatever official document without bigger problems, said snotching would loose its appeal) and John´s gun was out of ammo (oh, he should replace it or he will have to explain to John the nature of the experiment and something told him he wouldn´t be happy) and Mycroft had his own security team ready to come to his aid were this an atentate, he decided to try and calm down, so that his percieving wouldn´t be clouded by _emotions_.

„Mycroft?"

„Sh´lock?" Oh God! Mycroft was slurring. Mycroft always enunciated perfectly, never slurred, never even mumbled. He is hurt. Perhaps this is a stroke – he certainly didn´t have a healthy lifestyle, though he did try especially after he got together with Lestrade. Or Mycroft was...

..._drunk_. Sherlock literally stopped in his tracks. He has never seen his prother inebriated before. Not even as a teenager. Mycroft did drink alcohol, of course, it would draw attention were he not to accept a „friendly" glass of brandy, but he wouldn´t let anything fog his mind, not alcohol, not painkillers, nothing, ever.

And yet, Mycroft Holmes was undeniably swaying and slurring and having trouble focusing. And... were those tears? Oh God, Lestrade! Something happened to Greg! Sherlock didn´t hear from the DI for at least three hours, plenty of time for a well aimed bullet to stop a life, or even something as pedestrian as a car crash. And now Mycroft was alone again, just after he and Lestrade moved together, all those things around, the boxes full of Greg´s stuff to remind his brother what could have been...

„Lock? Stop... deducing... Making me sick..." stopped Mycroft his train of thoughts, apparently finding his brothers facial muscle movements disturbing.

„What happened?" asked Sherlock, dreading the answer. Mycroft sighed and than fell back on a setee.

After a bitter laugh, he finally replied: „I´m useless, that´s it. Here. You can mock now, I´m too drunk to care."

„Something happened to Lestrade?" tried Sherlock again, not being any wiser from what his brother said.

„Sherlock?! What happened? Is Greg... is he wounded? Tell me!" Mycroft jumped to stand, gesticulating wildly around him, his face an epitome of dread. With growing urgency he yelled at the detective, who was growing confused and really, really annoyed.

„You tell me, you fool! You call me here using the old „pink moon" code and when I rush here across the middle of London to find you wailing in whatever foolishness you´ve done drunk as a sailor. I don´t know if Greg is all right. I don´t know where he is, for that matter, I thought you were the one in charge of CCTV."

„So Greg´s not hurt?"

„I have no evidence to support this," said Sherlock and after witnessing the painful expression of Mycroft trying to make sense of this, but the cogs in his head not really falling into their place, he announced very loudly: „No. He is not hurt."

„Good. But he´s gonna come then. And find out. And leave." Sherlock watched as Mycroft expressions changed from blissful calm to concern to dread to sadness respectively. _I should have gotten him drunk when we were kids. I might have learned a lot about sentiment, since he is apparently uncapable of fixing his expressions this deeply drunk_, he thought. „How many have you had?" he asked gesturing to a still at least three fingers full glass on the coffe table.

„Five. Or six. Although it might have been more... no six, certainly."

Before Mycroft finished his count, Sherlock confiscated the glass from his reach. Six glasses. If Mycroft was anything like Sherlock in this matter, another one would knock him out completely. Feeling the need to take a sip from the brandy (well, it´s not like one can stay sobre with all the fumes round Mycroft, anyway), he gently nudged the drunk back to the setee and joined him there, putting the now empty glass away.

Mycroft still used the distress call. Even if this particular „pink moon" was due to error, Sherlock had to be sure. And then there was the mystery of his brother deciding after forty years of his life that _now_ was the right time to get pissed as a sailor.

„Why did you send me this?" the younger Holmes held his phone so that Mycroft could focus on it and make out the text. „Oh, well, it is a pink moon, isn´t it?"

„Yes, I am not illiterate, brother. Why did you need my help?"

„Well pink moon means „I need advice on a personal matter", so I am in need of... you know."

„Mycroft," Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, „I believe when we established it it ment „I am in a life and death situation and mummy is not around I need your help" I recall it precisely you twat."

„Surely not. Surely I am right. And watch your language." One must admit even stinking drunk the elder Holmes could use his words. Especially if it is a thousand times used frase.

„For God´s sake, we won´t argue about this. And I don´t let myself be chastised by drunks!"

„Every time you called me the pink moon..."

„... I was in dire need indeed."

„Oh for God´s sake. Three times – first when you broke Victor Trevor´s toy and believed he would kill you..."

„... he did try! He made me a black-eye!"

„Only because you have never learned how to apologise without making the other person angry again. The second time you discovered you are gay..."

„... four on a Kinsey scale! Don´t simplify!"

„... and believed _our father_ would kill you cause you´re a poof..."

„... you´re one too!"

„Which is why I was the disinherited one, because, apparently, I ´seduced you to my foul ways´"

„Ha! Like you would ever manage to control me!"

„Which leaves us with the third and the most laughable occasion when you believed that John would kill you after you came back from dead. But my point stands. Each and every time you used „pink moon", it turned out to be an emotional matter, so forgive me if I assumed that as you no longer call Mummy for help, even if it was in the original wording, the meaning of this litle code changed as well."

Sherlock was left speechless. Fuck! Fuck! Mycroft, ever the politician, won this round. „Why on Earth did you think that I would be able to help you with a personal matter? I am not exactly an agony aunt, you know?"

„Whereas I am a fully qualified human being with a kind heart, am I? And yet you came to me. So... sorry if I disturbed you... just go... there´s nothing you could and would do, anyway."

„What about you telling me what the problem is? What did you do?"

Mycroft lowered his gaze and suddenly Sherlock saw that there was more than just drunkenness in his posture, he was also deadly tired.

„When was the last time you slept?"

„Well, that´s the thing really. I was... away for two weeks. Bad ones. Working, eating only when Anthea forced me – and you know I can´t sleep well as long as I have unfinished business."

Sherlock nodded and Mycroft used the pause to rub the bridge of his nose, now more exhausted than drunk.

„I came home and didn´t – couldn´t- go to bed without Gregory, so I poured myself a drink and tried to watch TV – honestly I have to have a look at what rubbish there is – but I was getting asleep. As I´ve said, I wanted to wait for Greg, so, after finishing my second drink, I went upstairs."

With this, he got up and walking on not-quite-steady legs towards the staircase, motioning for Sherlock to follow, all the while still explaining:

„Greg required a home office of his own – it is the least I could do for him – and forbade me to buy any of the things there – he said it was a matter of pride. So I gave him one of the old guestrooms and when I finished the second glass I decided to check whether he moved in some things and purchased a table. He did. But it was not... completed."

He turned on his heel now facing Sherlock, a look of utter horror in his face. „Am I really that out of reality, little brother? Did you know that people buy for furniture which is not put together yet? Like they get boards and stuff and then construct it themselves?" Sherlock stiffled a giggle. It seemed that Mycroft Holmes, esq. got himself confronted with the modern wonders of Ikea.

„You decided to put it together, didn´t you? By the way next time you try it, it might be a good idea to get out of your jacket first."

„This is not funny, Sherlock," chided Mycroft and opened the door to his left. The consulting detective was tempted to take a photo with his phone. It seemed that upon managing to put together the three main boards of a soon-to-be table Mycroft decided that a manual is not needed (surely finding himself a perfect reason, such as ´the way they show you how to put it together is certainly the most boring an unimaginative one´, especially if he strenthened himself with another glass of brandy to keep awake). Said manual found its end in a new shredder in the corner. The book, however, proved its usefulness, because the other pieces of the furniture alongside with a lot of screws most of which Sherlock suspected should have found their way inside the table and debris of cardboard were alighned alongside the wall.

„Well, how many screws you have left?" „Thirty two. But this is not... I mean this is not the real problem... You know, Greg asked me not to interfere. And not only I did, without even realising it, but I have also proved myself unable to complete the task and ..." he audibly swallowed, „I broke Greg´s vase."

Sherlock couldn´t stop himself from laughing out loud. „Oh God, you have broken his vase, surely you are lost now!" „Stop it! You don´t understand! Greg doesn´t own any other such things, so it´s clearly not a thing he bought himself! And it´s from the forties! I broke Greg´s family heirloom, the only thing he really brought here apart from some clothing and toiletries! There´s no way he doesn´t have any emotional attachment to that ratchett thing, perhaps it is the only thing he has left as a memory of his parents! And I broke it!"

XXX

When Greg Lestrade came home after work, he unlocked the door switched on the lights and sighed. Mycroft was still not home and he was beginning to worry. This business trip proved to be longer than anticipated.

Upon reaching the second floor, however, he found a sheet of paper with Sherlock´s spidery writing on the door to his office:

_Lestrade,_

_Don´t open this door. I am afraid I might have broken most of the things you had there. It was an experiment, but I suppose I should apologise. I will buy you a new table. The vase is being repared in the British Museum restoration department, it should be done by the end of the week. Mycroft called, he will come home soon._

_P.S. Do you have any case?_

_P.P.S. I really need a case! But no boring ones!_

Well, Lestrade mused, I suppose there´s no need to tell Sherlock that the vase was an ironic and a quite rude joke from Anderson. „For when your boyfriend starts to bring you flowers, Lestrade," were Anderson´s last words before he got himself fired. He had it coming.

XXX

Back at 221B, Mycroft was sleeping in Sherlock´s bed, having blisfully fainted soon after his rant. The consulting detective busied himself with sending an image to John with an added title: Apocalypse in Kensington and a postscript_: I´ve got quite a story for your blog. Come home soon. SH_


End file.
